A reflection by Roy Pearson

I grew up on a small farm in rural Greene County, Mississippi, during the 1950s—a world far removed from the conveniences and noise that surround us today. Ours was a life of hard work, simple pleasures, deep roots, and lessons that would quietly shape the direction of my entire life. I was the youngest of five children: Sue (1935), George (1937), Ted (1940), and Hilda (1946) came before me. I arrived in 1949, the last one in a long line of siblings who were already seasoned farmhands by the time I learned to walk.

My parents’ story began long before I was born. Mama was just 19 and Daddy was 40 when they married in 1933. Their first home wasn’t a farmhouse at all—it was an old railroad car in the Wausau Lumber Company Camp. Daddy worked as an engineer on the rails that hauled logs to the big sawmill in Laurel, Mississippi. It was a humble beginning, but it was theirs. And like so many families of that generation, they built a life out of grit, faith, and whatever the land would give them.

By the time I was two or three, Daddy bought a farm in Greene County. That farm became the world where my childhood unfolded. We raised a huge garden, not only to feed ourselves but to ship vegetables to farmers’ markets around the nation. We tended cotton, watermelons, corn, and sugar cane. We kept milk cows, pigs, and chickens. There was always something to be done, something growing, something needing attention. Life on the farm had a way of teaching responsibility before a boy could even spell the word.

I was curious from the very beginning—always exploring, always asking questions—even though I had one significant fear: snakes. We had a creek running through our property, and Hilda and I often spent our summer days there. She swam; I only waded, keeping a wary eye out for anything that slithered. One day I caught what I thought was a snake on my fishing pole. I dropped the pole, ran home in a panic, and breathlessly announced that a snake was attacking my line. Daddy and my siblings followed me back—only to find an eel thrashing at the end of my hook. I became the object of teasing for days, but the story still makes me smile.

My imagination grew alongside my curiosity. Daddy always seemed to have spare lumber lying around, and my friend Danny and I “borrowed” some to build a church of our own. We managed to hammer together a floor, but the walls never materialized. I appointed myself the preacher and delivered sermons to Danny with all the seriousness I could muster. I was only mimicking Daddy’s style—strong, simple, and steady—but I had no idea that preaching would eventually become my calling after Daddy passed away when I was just fourteen.

Some of my earliest memories are of accompanying Daddy to funerals. He had only a fourth-grade education, yet he carried a gift for preaching that came straight from the heart. His sermons rarely lasted more than twenty minutes—he believed the Word didn’t need embellishing. Mama had a much harder time keeping me still in church; her pinches were legendary. But even while squirming in the pew, I listened. I watched Daddy minister to families in their grief. I observed his compassion, his humility, and the respect he earned from those he served.

Those nine years on the farm were more than a childhood—they were seeds quietly planted in the soil of my life. Farming teaches you to look closely, to ask questions, to search for answers in the rhythms of nature and the wisdom of those who came before you. It teaches you patience, perseverance, and faith. And it taught me to love learning—to look beneath the surface of things, both in the world around me and in the Scriptures that would shape my future ministry.

Looking back now, I see clearly that the creeks, the cotton fields, the vegetable rows, the old lumber scraps, and even the fear of snakes were part of the foundation God was laying in my life. The farm raised more than crops—it raised a boy who would one day become a pastor, a seeker, a teacher, and a lifelong student of truth.

Those early years in Greene County remain some of the richest soil my life has ever known.